


Rough-Hewn

by Skalidra



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gladiators, Alternate Universe - Space, Gen, Past Abuse, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-08 19:42:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16435616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: Slade's one of the best gladiators within the core systems. The very best, if you ask any of the advertisements run by Talia al Ghul, the owner of the gladiator house he's in service of. He has enough to buy his freedom several times over, but service suits him well enough. He fights, and then sometimes, when he's ordered to or when someone catches his eye, he trains. He finds one such boy at an auction; beaten, scarred, damaged and aggressive beyond what most owners would want to deal with. But Slade's always had an eye for those with potential, and he's always been persuasive.





	Rough-Hewn

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back! This is my second of the two fics I've got for SladeRobin week. This one is for day 3, 'Teacher/Student' and 'Rescue'. And, you know, everything is better with a little bit of sci-fi and space mixed in. (I actually meant this to be slashy, but it felt good where it was so I left it. Enjoy!)
> 
> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)

"This one."

The boy in the cell looks up, perhaps in response to his words, perhaps not. Slade hasn't checked to see if this particular cell is muted or not, and it's equally possible that his attention has been drawn by Talia stepping up beside him, arms crossed and long nails tapping against the bare skin of them. Completely out of place, here in the dregs of the auction. Most would expect someone with the sort of dress she's wearing to be looking at those high-class, expensive slaves, born and bred to please however you want them to. Granted, the one of those that Slade actually knows is far from the shallow toy he expected. A rarity, he's sure.

She tilts her head as she looks at the boy. Unimpressed. "Really?" She reaches for the panel to the side of the cell, swiping a finger down to display the information associated with him. "Aggression issues, disobedience—”

"When have those ever mattered to you?" Slade interrupts, and the sharp slice of her gaze is meant to be warning, although he doesn't particularly care.

She flicks the screen closed again. "He's damaged. The cost to fix him would be more than he's worth."

Inside the cell the boy grits his teeth, looking away as he gets to his feet and turns from them, answering Slade's curiosity on whether or not he could hear. He'd taken a look at the report, but it's different to see the fresh lash marks stretching along the boy's back and thighs with his own eye, layered on top of other scarring. Clearly not all of it, easy enough to see, made from any accepted form of punishment. Even if it wasn't clear, the scarred brand on his cheek and the scattered, dark bruising speaks a clear enough tale.

The report marks his previous owner as dead, natural causes. Slade has his doubts about that, personally, but given the obvious abuse he's disinclined to look any closer. If the boy did kill his owner, it was clearly deserved.

"You're only looking at the outside," he says, watching how the boy moves, circling the outer edge of his cell. There's almost no hint of his injuries in his stride, except the faintest rounding of his shoulders. "Don't fix him. Get him, let me have a few weeks with him. If it doesn't work, you'll have paid next to nothing anyway. If he is worth something, then you can think about paying to clean him up."

Talia lifts an eyebrow. "My father would have had you flayed for your attitude, you know."

"Mm, then I suppose I'm lucky your father no longer runs your house."

Slade holds his ground, sure that in this, Talia will allow his suggestions. After all, though she may own the house, he is by far their biggest source of income. He could have had his own freedom more than once, if he wanted. He still could. He's the best she owns, and he knows this game well enough to identify a potential addition to their garrison; she may know the business, but the actual arena is his domain. This boy could be a valuable fighter, if he's trained. If someone takes the time to look past his appearance.

"I assume you have reasons for suggesting this. Convince me."

It's as much permission as he'll get, and also enough to tell him he's already won.

"Easy, just look at him.” Slade waits till she looks at the cell, watching the boy on the other side of the barrier. He glares right back at both of them, before turning to circle back the opposite direction. “He's not afraid of either of us, which means he didn't break under abuse, he got angry; he's far less likely to shatter no matter how we pressure him. He's also not moving like he's injured, despite what's visible, which means he can take physical pain as well as the mental. Those two things together mean this kid will get up from just about anything you throw at him. If you give him a reason to." He slants his gaze sideways, to Talia. "A fair master and the chance to get those marks off his skin should be more than enough reason.”

There's a flicker to her expression that Slade recognizes; irritated, but only because she knows he's right. She looks at the boy, studying him with the focused distance that does make her an excellent judge of character most times, even if the wealth and power does sometimes make her quick to pass judgment. Slade only has to wait, silent, until she finally turns her gaze to the panel and its displayed price. As low as anyone would expect for a physically damaged, aggressive slave with no specialized skills listed. Pocket change, for her. It's only the reluctance to agree with him that's causing the delay.

"Very well," she finally grants, and shifts forward to signal her decision to buy. A press of her palm confirms it, and the panel chimes confirmation at the same time as the front of the cell goes dark. Sold. She steps away. "Three weeks. I'd suggest you don't disappoint me, Slade."

Talia turns and strides away without an answer, not that Slade intended to give one anyway. He doesn't doubt that she'll find some way to 'punish' him if he doesn't deliver on what he's implied, even if she can't do anything to him directly. Take the cost of the boy and his wasted training from his funds, perhaps. Limit his normal freedom, not that he can't keep himself occupied if necessary. Her father, the late Ra's al Ghul, wouldn't have cared how much he made for their business. Talia, on the other hand, is more interested in profits and less interested in enforced, complete obedience. That suits him just fine.

Well, if he's going to train the boy, he should get at least a first impression. Make a few things clear.

Gaining access backstage is as simple as catching the eye of an attendant; he's a regular enough visitor to these shows, at her side, that the staff knows him. (Even those who don't know him as Talia's will recognize him from his fame. It comes in handy sometimes.)

He walks past the doors, avoiding the paths of the hurrying staff, until he reaches the one he's looking for. Three-four-nine, red light blinking beneath the security access panel to signify that the boy's a flight risk. He wonders if that's true, or just someone reading the words 'disobedient and aggressive' and assuming that he might try and run as well. Either way, Slade has full confidence that he can stop one injured, untrained boy, if he has to.

The swipe of Talia's personal access card — or at least, the copy of it gifted to him — unlocks the door, registering that she's purchased this slave and allowing him access. The door opens smoothly, sliding into the wall and allowing him to step through.

The boy's on his way to standing when Slade steps in, back to one wall, jaw set and eyes narrowed. Hardly the most welcoming of postures, not that Slade expected any less. Reading between the lines of his records, the boy went from a basic training house to a master whose apparent favorite pastime was abuse. Given the faded look to some of his scars, likely endured it for years, with no one interfering. He has no reason to trust anyone, least of all another master.

He waits until the door has closed before asking, "What's your name, boy?"

Fingers draw into tight fists, the boy's gaze — blue-green, a pretty shade, really — flicking over the long black coat he wears, and the crest on its lapel. "Name's on my chart; can't you read?"

Slade steps a little further into the cell, raising an eyebrow and crossing his arms.

As the silence stretches, and he stays unmoving, the boy fidgets. Seems unnerved, either by his stillness or his lack of reaction to the baiting. That's all it is, baiting. As far as Slade's concerned the boy can run his mouth all he wants, so long as he falls into line where it counts. Answering questions is one of those lines, and all he has to do to enforce it is…

"Jason," the boy says, cracking. "It's Jason."

Wait.

Slade dips his head in acceptance, holding his ground to look at the boy. "Jason, hm? Your chart doesn't say much; any additional skills I should know about?"

Teeth grit, the minor vulnerability of his surrender filling right in with defensive anger. "Well apparently I make a great punching bag, if that's what you're into. Sorry, for some reason I didn't learn how to juggle while I was bleeding all over the floor."

He doesn't offer any reaction, as if the boy didn't speak at all. Only stands, and waits for a serious answer to his question. The boy expects pain for his words, is just waiting for Slade to prove him right, that he's just like he expects. Far more efficient to ignore the bad behavior, give no reaction, good or bad, and let that speak for itself. He has far more patience.

The boy cracks faster this time, gaze skittering away, a hand rising to scrub over his branded cheek. "No. I didn't… Nothing." His eyes lift, and now Slade can more plainly see the wounds there. "You're the one who bought me?"

"No, the woman who was with me did. I will be training you, however."

Jason twitches, as if the word has bad connotations for him. "What does that mean?"

Slade lets his arms fall, stepping deeper into the cell though he keeps his approach from being threatening as much as he's capable. "It means she owns my contract, just like she now owns yours. I convinced her that despite what your last master did to you, you still had the potential to be molded into something truly worthwhile."

"You're a slave?" the boy asks, almost as if he doesn't believe it.

"I am," is all the answer he plans on giving. "Your new mistress is named Talia al Ghul; she owns and runs one of the largest gladiator leagues within the core systems. I fight for her, and occasionally, I train. When I'm ordered to, or when someone catches my interest. Luckily for you, you have."

The parade of expressions that twist the boy's face are truly entertaining, though they settle somewhere around shocked disbelief. "You want me to fight? I don't… I don't have any idea how to fight."

"Thus the training," he can't help but snark. "The two of us have three weeks to get you far enough along to convince her you're worth keeping. I expect you to listen to me, follow my orders, and don't do anything monumentally stupid while you're my responsibility. It's combat training, it will hurt, but you can have my word that I don't plan on otherwise touching you. I don't play games, I'm not a sadist, and I frankly don't think physical punishment would be an effective tool against you so there's no sense in me using it. That clear enough for you, boy?"

The boy isn’t far from him now, a matter of a couple steps. “Yes, but… Why me? I’m…” His jaw clenches, head tipping down a bit and turning, as if to hide the brand from him. “You could do a lot better than me.”

Slade snorts. “Any idiot can learn to swing a blade. It’s much harder to teach someone to take a hit and get back up, and it looks to me like you have a knack for that.” He pauses, taking a look at the boy’s posture, the apparent reluctance to meet his eye, even though his jaw is still tight. “Now, that chart out there says that you’re disobedient. That true, or can you handle taking orders?”

He has his suspicions. The boy doesn’t strike him as having any true disciplinary problems, only what’s entirely natural from the previous relationship with his master. Anyone abused, who doesn’t break, will have some problems with attitude until that abuse is addressed. Generally speaking, the slaves that actually have obedience problems are weeded out long before they reach open sale; bulk-sales to companies being the most common way to get rid of them. Unless his sale was unusual, it's unlikely that the boy started with any issues. No training house would want a bad mark like that on their record.

The boy stalls, but finally tilts his head just enough to look Slade in the eye. "I guess it depends on what the orders are."

That pulls a snort from him. The boy flinches when he lifts a hand, tenses like he’s expecting a blow despite Slade’s promise, but holds his ground.

He ruffles that head of black hair. “Good answer.”

Jason’s staring at him. Wide-eyed, stunned.

“You’ll be transported soon enough. When you’re delivered, and once you’ve seen our medic for those lashes, we’ll begin. Whatever reservations you might have about the work, take this time to get over it. If we’re going to do enough work to convince her to keep you, we won’t have any time to waste on hesitation.”

Slade turns away, and takes three steps towards the door before Jason asks, “Why would I want to stay?”

He looks back, raising an eyebrow at both the boldness and the question itself. Nothing that a normal slave would ask, or even most disobedient ones. Still, there’s no harm in answering, this time.

“Because, boy, the al Ghuls don’t trade in damaged stock.” Jason gets it instantly, and Slade watches his eyes widen again, how he takes in a sharp, shaking breath. “So behave, and don’t give the staff any trouble. I’ll see you later.”

Whatever his response might have been, the boy doesn’t find it before Slade’s left the room.

 

* * *

 

The boy learns quickly. Hasn't got a damn clue how to fight, but Slade finds himself vindicated by the boy's easy compliance to his demands. Not a step outside of the lines he draws, and swift to follow orders, even if Jason does frequently ask for the reasons behind them. He never asks about something twice, though, which Slade approves of. All around, the boy's undoubtedly a good purchase, and Slade is perfectly confident that Talia will agree with him once she sees it.

As Slade expected, he can take a hit, isn't fazed by bruises, and is always fast to get back up again, except when he's been completely exhausted. He's got excellent reaction times, decent enough strength for someone not trained to it, and his build lends itself to combat fairly well. Long arms, long legs, and trim despite his past injuries, if not particularly muscled. All things Slade noted to begin with, though how quick he is makes for a pleasant surprise. Nothing kills a gladiator as fast as simply being too slow.

The others in the league mock him, and the second pleasant surprise is the boy doesn't rise to the bait. He angers, but he holds his tongue and he doesn't let them goad him into a fight, and with Slade's eye on him none of the others are stupid enough to actually lay a hand on him. Not more than once, anyway.

The first offender, Slade puts on the ground in two seconds flat. He doesn't have to make his point again.

As far as he's concerned, they can beat each other to hell, if that's what they want. It’s not his job to keep peace between idiots, and it’s not his hide on the line if they cost Talia anything because of that stupidity. But Jason’s his charge for now, and that _is_ his hide if it goes poorly. He doesn’t have the patience to deal with some moron making his task more difficult.

When he’s _done_ , the boy can learn to fend for himself in this place. Till then, Slade doesn’t plan on letting anyone touch him. Call it a period of grace.

At the end of his allotted three weeks, the boy's as ready as Slade is capable of making him. Still worse than any other fighter in Talia's collection, but that's to be expected. He's not out to prove Jason's better than the rest, only that he could be as good as them if given the chance. And above all, that he can be taught, that he can obey. No one is going to teach a truly disobedient, aggressive slave how to handle a weapon; it would show a remarkable lack of common sense.

Slade eyes how Jason's standing as they wait, critical of every angle in his stance. He grunts, reaching forward to flick his chin up. Jason takes the correction without a word, lifting his head to a higher angle, gaze lifting but loose, staring straight ahead without focusing on anything in particular. Better. The boy knows protocol; Slade only had to correct a few details of it to fit his new role. No more being on his knees, no looking down. A slave, but not subservient.

He doesn't bother with any words, only settles in to wait himself. Nothing he can say now will make any difference to Jason's fate; he's done what he can.

Talia leaves them to wait for a short while longer before appearing, striding in through the training room's doors with an attendant at her heels. Slade lifts an eyebrow, but doesn't comment. He stays leaning against the wall of the room, watching as she approaches Jason, coming to stand just before him. He holds his ground.

She studies him first, and Slade can see her gaze linger on the bare skin of his chest. Maybe looking at the scars on him, but more likely examining the changes in musculature. Three weeks doesn't make for all that much change, but good food, exercise, and prompt attention from medics when necessary has certainly left its mark. More importantly, it's easy to see the change in demeanor. The angry, wounded boy from the cell is gone, thanks to the more or less fair hand Slade's had him under. All the boy needed was a decent master.

"What have you taught him?" Talia asks, stepping to the side and eyeing the length of the boy's back.

Slade shrugs. "Basic drills, mainly. Hand-to-hand, sword, and staff. He needs stamina and power before I can teach him anything more involved." She knows all that, just like she knows his normal training methods, if not the small variations he makes to fit each student. "We can choose a specialty later, if you're planning on keeping him."

Talia makes a non-committal hum of sound, and steps away to the raised pedestal of the room's controls, activating the screen with a pass of her hand. Slade pushes off the wall to join her, moving to stand to her side, look down at what she's keying in. Hm.

"Boy," she calls, as sharp as a blade and just as potentially lethal. He may have a certain level of immunity himself, but Slade's seen her flay apart those that have upset her before. Some, even personally.

Jason turns his head to look to her, chin just slightly dipped but eyes lowered no further than her shoulders. "Mistress?"

"Take a weapon," is the order, as the confirmation of her command releases one of the combat bots from within its storage against the wall. "My champion thinks you're worth enough to justify what I'll have to spend on you; let's see if he's right."

Slade waits till Jason's bowed his acceptance, heading off for the weapon racks against the wall, before quietly pointing out, "He won't beat a level three program."

Talia doesn't offer him any reaction, only waits till Jason has a weapon in hand — and the bot's extended its arm to the same kind of staff — before activating the bot's combat protocols with a tap of fingers. Only then, crossing her arms to watch, does she say, "I don't believe you were selling him to me based on pre-existing combat skill."

The staff cracks across Jason's upper arm, staggering him but pulling nothing but a grunt. Slade watches how he shakes it off, falling back into the somewhat awkward dance of someone who doesn't fully know what to do with the weapon in their hand. The bot, set at its current level, vastly outstrips his current ability, but no, Slade didn't suggest getting him for his skill. (What skill? The boy barely knows more than how to cook and clean and 'serve,' most likely. Basic training doesn't tend to cover much more.)

He hits the ground within forty-five seconds; Talia doesn't call a halt, so Slade doesn't either. Of course, as Slade now expects of him, the boy gets back up. Breathing a little harder, but he fell well, didn't get all too winded. He sets up to begin again, and the bot is the first to strike. To land, again, this time with a hard shove to his ribs that sends Jason flinching aside.

As immovable as a cliff face, Talia doesn't show any signs of stopping things even as the bot takes him down again, and again. Slamming him to the floor or sweeping his legs with enough force that eventually, not even falling correctly is enough to stop the boy from being winded. His skin’s darkening where he’s been hit, right leg beginning to threaten to buckle, which of course means that the bot hones in on it as a weakness, as it’s programmed to.

Soon the leg will barely hold him at all, something likely strained by the way Jason’s expression is twisted into bared teeth and a furrowed brow. Slade can see the moment that the boy decides that he’s going to have to do something desperate to have a chance at winning.

He shoves close, angling right into the path of the bot’s staff, his own striking upwards at the equivalent of its throat.

A level one combat program, made more for repeating drills against than actual combat, won’t follow through on any blow that could potentially take an opponent completely out of the fight. Like, say, a staff to the side of the head.

A level three doesn’t have those limiters.

Jason’s staff hits its chin, snapping the bot’s ‘head’ back with good force. Then the return blow cracks into his temple and the boy goes down with all the grace of a sack of potatoes, crumpling to the mats. Slade can’t quite help his snort, or how one corner of his mouth curls up.

One of Talia's eyebrows lifts into a delicate arch.

When Jason doesn't move, apparently out cold for at least the next few seconds, Talia deactivates the bot and sends it back to its station.

“He's dogged,” is her first comment, stepping around the pedestal. “How far will he go?”

Slade shrugs, “Till he can't stand, if I let him.”

He's mainly just amused at her refusal to simply accept the boy, like he knows she's going to. Showing it would probably get her to drop Jason out of spite, so he keeps his expression wiped clean of it. If he doesn't allow it to show, she'll pretend she doesn't know it exists, and they can both continue on the inevitable route. To her saying, finally…

"Very well. Get him up; the surgeons are standing by."

And Talia thought he'd believe that she would really say no. They've known each other too many years for that.

The boy's stirring by the time Slade's crossed over to him and knelt down, reaching out to tap at his cheek. His eyes blink open, slow and dazed. "Come on, boy. Time to get back up."

Jason's brow furrows, and he grimaces, but he does start to push up on his elbows. Wavers, at least until Slade wraps a hand around his arm and helps him rise. The leg's still weak, but it holds when he lets the boy stand on his own. He might be a touch concussed, but it's unlikely any real damage was done. He can be checked over when he goes to the medics, before Talia sends him in to be fixed up. She may not have the hands-on experience, but she's far from a fool. She'll make sure.

Slade crosses his arms, now that he's sure the boy can stand. "That was stupid," he points out. "I don't ever want to see you self-sacrifice to score a hit again, is that clear?"

"It wasn't supposed to hit me," he mutters, hand rising to his temple. It's probably being stunned that slows the boy down, apparently not quite putting together what that means for a few seconds. Until he does, and his gaze lifts, something fragile and bright in his eyes. "I can stay?"

"Yeah, kid. You can stay." Slade nods in Talia's direction. "Go on; don't keep your mistress waiting."

It's brilliant hope in his eyes, but the boy only dips his head before obeying. Slade scoffs, quiet enough to keep it from his ears, as he watches Jason go to Talia. Her attendant, standing quietly by the door, is the one to step in beside the boy, guide him with a hand on one shoulder to follow as she sweeps out the door with as much flair as she swept in. He's limping, but he more or less keeps pace.

The boy's not bad. An idiot at times, undoubtedly, but Slade's met much worse. He has a decent shot at surviving all this, even earning freedom someday, if he's smart. And a little lucky.

For once, Slade might be interested enough to keep training him, even if he isn't ordered to.

Just this once.

**Author's Note:**

> (If anyone's curious, Slade is a slave because he was arrested, and a slave-sentence was one of the ways he could serve his time. Fighting for pay is only a step down from mercenary work anyway, and he likes it. When he's ready to leave, he'll pay off his sentence and get his freedom back.)


End file.
